Die With You, Wendy

What will it be like to witness the birth of a song?

I found a time machine and traveled to 1973, New Jersey, where I met Wendy from “Born to Run.” She was a vivid, gorgeous woman. Yet she wasn’t fully herself. She belonged to someone else’s dream. 

I rented an apartment down the block from her, near the boardwalk, and watched her head to work each morning. Her shoulders were straight, her gaze clear. She looked proud to be in her body. It was only when her boyfriend came around that her mood turned sulky. Run away, I wanted to tell her. 

I got a job waiting tables at an all-nite diner, and the two of them would stumble in late, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. He had a mop of hair and a mouth full of cigarettes. Tendrils of smoke cordoned her off. When they were done with their food — a shared stack of pancakes, a couple pots of coffee — they ran out to the ocean and disappeared in the surf.

I took the time machine to 1963, Hollywood, and followed The Beach Boys around town. They were a year away from releasing “Wendy.” Wendy left me alone. Before long, I saw their muse. She was always waiting for them outside the recording studio, gazing up at the palm trees, legs crossed. 

One day, I saw her succumb to a conversation with a tall man who spoke Italian. He leaned in and touched her elbow. She took a step back. I could tell from how he leered that he viewed her as a dandelion: soft and fertile, ready to break into a million pieces. 

That was one gaze Wendy endured. The other was a form of retribution. I never thought a guy could cry ’til you made it with another guy. According to The Beach Boys, Wendy was corrupt, deceitful. Everyone cheered when they sang about her.

I traveled to 1969, Columbus, Ohio. The first Wendy’s Hamburgers was about to open. The terrain felt familiar: my parents were from the Midwest. Though they were devoutly happy — because they were devoutly happy — I felt like they had laid a burden at my feet. Even a couple hours in Columbus made me ill. If Wendy was at the opening of her own restaurant, I missed it. I headed to the Greyhound terminal and took the first bus out of town.

We had a layover in Louisville. I found a dark bar by the station, took a seat, and ordered a beer. A man chatted me up. What’s your name? he said. Wendy, I told him. Pretty name, he said. I wanted to tell him that in my time, the name Wendy was a joke. I wanted to tell him that in my time, I was my own person, that I had no need for him. But it was 1969, Kentucky, and his gaze was like a strong current, and I could feel myself being dragged from the shore into the river.